


I like a little pain in my pleasure

by MyWritingCabin



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: BDSM, M/M, Riding Crops, Rimming, Spanking, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 03:49:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyWritingCabin/pseuds/MyWritingCabin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows why he’s like this, what’s about to happen. He even welcomes it even though he knows he won’t be thinking like this in a minute.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I like a little pain in my pleasure

**Author's Note:**

> My muse has been screaming at me for a while to write something. This is the result.

”Hold that. Good. You’re looking really good like this.”

Clint is desperately trying to hold his position; shoulders pressed on the bed, on his knees, and his hands are holding his butt cheeks open. He knows why he’s like this, what’s about to happen. He even welcomes it even though he knows he won’t be thinking like this in a minute. 

Phil can dish out a punishment for his stubborn sub better than Clint had ever thought was possible. If anyone outside of SHIELD looked at Phil Coulson they would never guess how much power there was in that body. Fellow agents in SHIELD definitely would. Or they should. There was power, obviously, otherwise he wouldn’t have gotten to the position he is now, but there’s also mad precision and the ability to find his target and make it count. You didn’t have to wield a switch hard if you knew where to hit. And Phil sure did. 

“Now. Let’s start lightly.” 

Clint can feel Phil come closer on the bed and rest the riding crop on his ass.

“And remember, I don’t want to hear a word from you. You can make noises, but no speaking unless I ask something. Okay? I think you remember what nosy neighbors we have. So, no speaking, unless you want all our neighbors to come and see what a disobedient boy you are and how you love it when I spank your ass.”

Clint barely has time to even react to that sentence when the first hit strikes. Ugh. His left cheek stings a little from the smack and Clint tries to brace him to what is sure to follow. Phil’s patterns in punishing him are always erratic, no time is the same as the last, but they always follow the same basic principle: lull him into a false sense of security, then show Clint who’s the boss. 

Second and third hit strike his left cheek again. It’s starting to sting more. 

More hits. Clint’s ass is most certainly starting to redden. His cock twitches. 

Top of his thighs. Just below his hands still holding his cheeks open. 

Clint focuses on breathing, the riding crop falling swiftly and rhythmically on his ass. His cock is half hard from the adrenaline rush alone, the pain making his pleasure sweeter. 

Ten hits, fifteen hits. Clint is focusing more and more on his breathing, his cock hanging between his legs, fully hard now. Tears are starting to form and they are gathering in the corners of his eyes. He makes a wet, little sound every time the crop hits a particularly sore area. His hands still hold on, he will and can keep this position for quite a while yet. 

After twenty hits with the crop Phil takes a little break. Clint feels the heat radiating from his ass. His thighs are quivering ever so slightly and his face is wet with tears. He sniffles and tries to compose himself for more to come. 

“Clint? “ he hears Phil ask. 

Clint’s head feels so heavy, his limbs are shaking minutely and he can almost feel the approaching subspace. He lifts his head a tiny bit and grunts in confirmation of hearing. 

Phil puts his hand on Clint’s cheek and wipes away some of the tears that have gathered there. 

“You okay? What colour?”

Clint nods and mumbles green; Phil’s touch feels so good, his thumb moving gently back and forth. 

“Good boy,” Phil says and moves back to the back of the bed. 

Clint braces himself. This time it’s obvious Phil is not holding back. His strikes are more accurate, finding already sore spots and finding new places that Clint didn’t even know could feel the sting of a crop. He’s making soft, sobbing noises, but not speaking. Not a word. Not unless Phil wants him to. 

The twenty-fifth strike _hurts_. The crop hits near his hole, a place Phil has never hit before. The next one is the same. And the next one. Phil continues to strike him closer and closer to his asshole with every hit until…

“Aaaaah!” Clint can’t help himself. He screams. 

The pain is immense. It’s all he can feel now. His hands are clenching, trying to find purchase on his skin. His face and the pillow below him are soaked with tears and he’s sobbing uncontrollably. All he feels is the crop, all he feels… All he…

Suddenly, Phil stops. Clint can barely hear the noise the crop makes when it hits the floor beside the bed. Next thing he feels is Phil. Phil is easing him to lie down on the bed. His muscles are aching, his hands are shaking and he can’t stop crying. He feels Phil lie down on top of him, maneuvering Clint’s hands and other body parts the way he wants them and where he wants them. Clint can feel Phil’s erection, can feel the way Phil humps against his abused ass, the way the heats magnifies every time Phil’s cock brushes against Clint’s hole. 

Clint is flying. His whole being is engulfed in sensation; the heat originating from his ass, Phil’s hands as they map their way across his body, Phil’s lips tracing almost the same path as his hands, the wet pillow underneath his face. He can feel the body heat diminishing as Phil sits up and rests his ass on Clint’s calves. Clint can feel Phil groping his ass, spreading his cheeks. 

The next thing he feels is something wet. Phil’s lips and tongue tracing his asshole. All the sensation he felt all over his body is his now focused on that tiny part of his body. His cock is still painfully hard, but he won’t come without permission. He tries to subtly hump the bed sheets, to relieve the ache, but Phil’s hands hold him still and restrict his movements. The only relief he will feel is from the expertly applied tongue fuck, the occasional stabs and the loving ministrations of his tongue as it slurps and licks and soothes his hole. 

This goes on, what feels like to Clint, for hours. Or days. Clint has lost the ability to keep time. His senses are all warped and nothing else matters outside of this, right now. Phil and Clint. Clint and Phil. They are one. Clint’s mind can’t differ Phil’s hands from his hands anymore, his hole is Phil’s to do as he wishes, his body his to command. 

He can barely hear Phil utter the permission to come, to let go. It takes a while to register in Clint’s euphoric brain, but then he comes. He comes like he hasn’t in a long while, blacking out a bit in the end. He comes to and hears Phil jacking off on top of him and then feels the sperm land on his body. Phil’s hands spread it all over his ass, rubbing it around. 

Phil lies down next to him and drags Clint’s body half way on top of him. Phil takes a hold of his head and puts it in the crook of his neck and smoothes and pets his wild hair with delicate movements. Clint can hear him shushing and making soothing noises. What he’s saying isn’t important, it’s the action. Tears are still gathering in his eyes, but it’s all okay now. He’s safe. 

He draws a shaky breath, breathes Phil in and just lets go. He has everything here that he needs. There is no place that he rather be in than here, with Phil.


End file.
